


My Dearest Varric

by KatjaLaRoux



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatjaLaRoux/pseuds/KatjaLaRoux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year and a half after the Battle of Kirkwall, Hawke sends a letter to Varric.<br/>...<br/><i>Yes, I said “us.” There is a story there, and it’s one I think you would appreciate. The point, however, is that I am alive and safe and not alone.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	My Dearest Varric

_My dearest Varric,_

_I heard you were interrogated in by the Seekers. I am truly sorry. I can’t apologize enough for dragging you into this. And don’t roll your eyes at me—I know you are!  I know you want to tell me that you weren’t “dragged” but joined me willingly. Either way, I’m sorry you are involved._

_Now that the Seeker has come and gone, I wanted to let you know that I am safe. I know you don’t know where I’ve been. I doubt even your contacts are good enough to have followed us all this time. Yes, I said “us.” There is a story there, and it’s one I think you would appreciate. The point, however, is that I am alive and safe and not alone._

…   …   …

She glanced across the room at Nathaniel. He was currently sprawled on the sofa, book in hand. Sleeping. She smiled to herself. Some things about Nathaniel were so predictable, including his afternoon naps under the pretense of reading.  She regarded his profile, the sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and aquiline nose—a distinctive feature of the Howe family she had learned.

“You’re staring.”

She jumped. He hadn’t even opened his eyes.

“How do you _do_ that?”

He opened his eyes and turned his head to face her. And smirked. “Rogue secrets, my dear.”

“I’m a rogue, too.” She rolled her eyes. Then she added with a smirk of her own, “I suppose it’s all those extra years of experience you’ve got.”

“Perhaps,” he said, eyes dancing with amusement, “or perhaps I am just a better rogue.”

 “Go back to sleep.” She shook her head and returned to her letter.

…   …   …

_Do you remember a certain Warden we rescued in the Deep Roads just a couple of months before the mess at the Gallows? I ran into him while travelling in Ferelden. I suppose the more accurate account would be to say that our paths crossed. I was alone and had been for a while. I was running out of money and was exhausted. When he realized it was me, he offered his assistance, saying that he owed me from our little rescue mission._

…   …   …

It was the fourth time she’d seen him in less than a week. First he was just a hooded figure in the corner of a small tavern east of Highever. She was aware of his presence but hadn’t given him much thought. Until she saw him again a few nights later walking through the merchants stalls in Amaranthine. He had nodded at her in acknowledgement, but between the hood of his cloak and the dim light at dusk, she couldn’t make out his face. The next day, she passed him on the road where he was chatting with a merchant caravan. His hood was down then, but his back was to her. All she could see was shoulder length, dark hair. But then he showed up in the small village tavern she’d found halfway between Amaranthine and Denerim. They were clearly on the same path. Or he was following her.

Distracted by that thought, she didn’t notice the farmer approaching her.

“Well, ‘llo there, sweetheart.”

Startled, she looked up at the beefy, blonde man.

“Hello,” she said, trying to be polite but not too welcoming.

“Don’t get pretty girls like you in these parts much. Can I buy you a drink?”

She turned him down twice. The first time nicely, the second time less so. He got angry and grabbed at her arm. In the scuffle that followed, she ended up with a split lip, and he ended up unconscious on the floor.

She shook out her hand and flexed her fingers. She was grateful Carver had taught her how to throw a punch without breaking her hand when they were children, but it still hurt like the Void.

“Are you alright?”

When she looked up at the concerned face in front of her, she froze. The nose, the grey eyes, and the dark hair matched with that gravelly voice. It was all suddenly very familiar. No one was supposed to know her in Ferelden. Nathaniel Howe wasn’t supposed to be in Ferelden. She felt surge of panic and nausea sweep through her.

Without a word, she snatched her pack and cloak, shoved past Nathaniel, and darted for the door. Once outside, she took a quick turn to get her bearings, and ran towards the main road. It was dark, too dark to be travelling safely, but facing wolves and bandits sounded better than being caught and sent back to Kirkwall.

Nathaniel, however, had long legs and was fast. He caught up to her just beyond the edge of the village.

“Hawke!”

She spun at her name and hissed, “Not so loud.”

Bewildered, he looked at her with wide eyes. “I…I almost didn’t recognize you. Do you remember me? My name is—”

“Nathaniel Howe. Yes. I remember you,” she snapped and readjusted her bag on her shoulder.

“I—right. I’m sorry if I startled you. I just saw what happened. Are you okay? Your lip is bleeding.”

She touched her tongue to her lip, tasting the blood there and shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

He arched an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “There are people looking for you, you know.”

She mimicked his posture, folding her arms as well, and said, “I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “I see.”

“Do you?” She pulled the dagger from her hip and spun it in her hand once. Her hand was throbbing from the punch, and she was very aware that she was nearly a head shorter than the man in front of her. She knew her chances were decent, but she didn’t want to fight him. She just needed to let him know how serious she was.

She held his gaze for a moment before he let out a small chuckle.

“Yes, Hawke. I do.” He held out a hand to her. “I have a room at the inn. Come with me.”

Anger and incredulity bubbled through her as she took in his small laugh and the faint smile on his lips. She tightened her grip on her dagger and narrowed her eyes.

But he just chuckled again and gestured with his hand. “Your secret will be safe, I swear it. Let me help you.”

…   …   …

_We have been travelling together ever since. There is of course, more to the story of how a simple offer of assistance turned into us staying together for nearly a year. I won’t tell you all of the details because I don’t want to give away too much of where we’ve been and how we’re avoiding the Seekers. Plus I am sure you’ll want to fill in some of the details yourself—you know what makes a better story after all._

…   …   …

“There was talk of Elissa and me marrying. Before my father, before the Blight,” Nathaniel mused, looking up at a portrait of Fergus and his little sister.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, not knowing what else to say. He hadn’t sounded sad as he said it, but she wasn’t sure how else to respond to the sudden clench she felt in her chest at his words. She looked at the portrait and added, “She’s very pretty.”

“Yes, she was,” Nathaniel said and put an arm around her shoulder, something he often did when they were out, part of their cover story for her existence. His pretend wife, who would eventually get sick and disappear, once she had somewhere to disappear to. “We were good friends when we were children. Not as close as Fergus and I, but I suppose we could have been happy.”

She felt her chest tighten again but said nothing this time. She couldn’t identify the emotion, so she pushed it aside. Nathaniel was idly toying with the edge of her dress at her shoulder, and she could feel the warmth of his calloused fingers occasionally brushing her bare skin. She tried to push the tingling sensation there aside as well.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Nathaniel said after a moment. “Is something on your mind?”

“No,” she lied and turned her face away from the very pretty Elissa Cousland to focus on a different painting in the parlor. But she’d spoken too quickly, and he could tell it was a lie. He could always tell. He shifted his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him.

“What is it?”

She looked up at his small frown and sighed, “Nothing really. I just am sorry you didn’t get your fairy tale.”

She avoided eye contact, hoping he hadn’t heard the bitterness in her voice, wondering herself where that bitterness had come from. But she could tell he was studying her face.

“Are you…you’re not jealous, are you?”

When her eyes snapped to his face and saw his smirk, she felt a rush of anger along with all the other emotions she’d been pushing aside that afternoon.

“No,” she replied and stepped back once, out of his arm’s reach. But her mind was spinning. Jealous. That was exactly what she’d been feeling when he started speaking of his potential marriage to Elissa Cousland, to the very pretty blonde girl with noble blood and noble breeding. And the sadness she felt whenever he spoke of his father, of his loss, went just a little bit deeper than the sympathy one might feel for a friend. And as soon as she saw that, she also realized that her skin reacting to his touch was something else entirely, something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. As she looked up at his grey eyes, crinkled at the corners in amusement, she knew she had done it again. She knew she had fallen for another man who she could not have.

“You are,” he said with a small chuckle, completely unaware of the overwhelming emotions roiling under her skin in that moment. And he was shocked and confused when her eyes filled with tears and she turned away from him, stalking to the other side of the room.

“No,” she said again, not turning to look at him, wiping hastily at the few tears that had escaped. If she turned to look at him, she knew she would not be able to keep her voice level. “I have no right to feel jealousy over this. Not only are you speaking of something from the past, but I have no claim over you.” Then to herself, she quietly added, “And I won’t do this to myself again.”

“Do what?”

She jerked her head up. She hadn’t heard him move to her side, hadn’t expected him to be close enough to hear her. She blinked at him, scrambling for a response. And he just raised an eyebrow. She’d never met anyone who could say so much with just his eyebrows before. When she still said nothing, he sighed.

“Mari, please. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I…fine,” she exhaled.

She knew there was no point in trying to keep it from him. Even from the beginning, that first night when he had laughed at her threat, he had always been able to see through her. She had stood her ground in the face of demons, the Arishok, Meredith, but somehow Nathaniel Howe always knew when she was playing at being tough and composed. And she realized it didn’t matter much anyway. He had already seen her weep over the loss of her home and her friends, tremble at the prospect of having to wear a gown instead of armor, and flinch at the sight of a Chantry sister. Nathaniel was one of the few people who actually had met Marian instead of Hawke, and this new situation was no less embarrassing to her than those had been.

She turned away from him before she finally started speaking.

“Yes. Hearing you talk about marrying Elissa Cousland made me jealous. She’s beautiful and strong and smart and of noble blood. All of the things I am not. And I’ve realized that I’ve developed…feelings. For you. That I shouldn’t have.” She paused for several heartbeats, inhaling slowly, before adding, “I should go. I’ll pack tonight when we get back and head for Rivain in the morning.”

“You are all of those things,” he said, his voice soft.

“What?” She looked back up at him, brows drawn together.

“Do you really believe that you are not beautiful?”

She snorted. “Of all the things I just told you, _that’s_ what you’re concerned about?”

“Yes and no.” He started to reach for her hand but stopped halfway, dropping his arm back to his side with another small sigh. “You _are_ beautiful, Mari. I have always thought that. And you are strong and smart and so many other things. And I don’t give a damn about noble blood, but technically, you are that as well. We can argue about those things later, if you wish. But tell me, why do you think you should not have feelings for me?”

“Because this is temporary. An act. I am fortunate that you have been willing to help me this much, more so that we have become friends, but we know I can’t stay. I can’t…we can’t…” She looked down at her hands, as though her open palms in front of her would somehow make speaking the next words out loud less painful. “I can’t let myself fall in love with someone who will never love me back. It would be best if I move on.”

“And what if I am not ready to let you go?”

…   …   …

_I can tell you this much: you were right about Sebastian. Being away from Kirkwall and all of its problems has given me some time to put things into perspective. I won’t say that I have many regrets, but I know now with certainty that he was never the right one for me. Even if things hadn’t happened with Anders the way they did, it would have been a mistake for me to follow Sebastian to Starkhaven._

…   …   …

The Nathaniel she met in Ferelden seemed so different than that one she’d rescued in the Deep Roads—or the one Anders had groused about having worked with. He could go for hours without saying a word, but then he would interrupt the comfortable silence with a story or some thoughtful observation. His face was often impassive, but she soon discovered that he was as likely to let out a soft chuckle as he was a derisive grunt. And in those first few weeks together, she often found herself watching him, trying to figure him out. And there was one morning in particular, when this habit and her thoughts of Sebastian overlapped.

They were at an inn, somewhere in the Bannorn, having Marcher cakes with lemon and sugar for breakfast, a favorite of Nathaniel’s.  And she was observing the way he was eating the cakes. He would cut a straight line through them then cut bite sized squares from there, one at a time. When he finished that row, he cut another and repeated the process. He wasn’t making each row the same width or each bite a perfect square, but there was still something precise about it.

And in that moment, she remembered the way Sebastian had eaten his. He preferred the Starkhaven golden syrup to the more traditional lemon and sugar, and he’d always made such a mess of his cakes before eating them. He chop through them haphazardly with his fork and knife, creating a pile of shredded cake, before pouring golden syrup on. It seemed so counter to the way he carried himself, the disorder in such a mundane action belying the controlled perfection he normally presented.

She had spent six years pining after Sebastian. And he had let her. She knew he had been conflicted about his future, but he spoke often enough about returning to Starkhaven instead of the Chantry that she’d remained hopeful. When things in Kirkwall began to fall apart, so did her friendship with Sebastian. And that morning, watching Nathaniel carefully cut through his Marcher cakes, she couldn’t help but think that the mess Sebastian made of his cakes was indicative of the emotional mess he was hiding under his shiny white armor.

Nathaniel, on the other hand, was straightforward about his emotions. When he was calm and quiet, he was genuinely at peace. And when something was bothering him, when he was struggling with something from his past or angry about some current conflict, he would tell her. And he was honest and direct about it, much like the way he ate his Marcher cakes.

…   …   …

_I can also tell you that we’ve stopped running. For now, at least, we’ve settled somewhere. I have a home again—with a mabari puppy who may or may not be named in honor of you and a vegetable garden without a single turnip in it. It’s so domestic, you wouldn’t even recognize me! Of course, that is the point. Again, it’s best I don’t give away too many details, but we are safe here. And would you believe I’m actually happy?_

…   …   …

She paused in her writing and let out a small sigh. Was she happy? Maybe not always. Maybe not in the early hours of the morning waking with memories of smoke and rubble and statues clinging to her mind. Maybe not in the afternoons wandering the market stalls in Highever and being greeted as Marilee—a name so close to her own but not her own—surrounded by people she now knows but isn’t friends with. Maybe not in the middle of the night when she wakes to one of Nathaniel’s stray nightmares and is reminded that he only has so much time.

She turned to look at him again on the other side of the room. And she couldn’t help but smile before turning back to her letter. For every moment that she is less than happy, there are three of four when she is happy. And as she considered these times—laughing with Fergus and Nathaniel over some childhood story of theirs, Fergus’s wife teaching her dance steps and teasing her about her lack of coordination when daggers aren’t involved, afternoons like this one, quiet and comfortable and altogether normal—she knew she was genuinely happy.

“You seem to be spending as much time daydreaming as writing that letter. Who is it to?”

She tilted her head to look up at Nathaniel. He’d snuck up on her, again, and was now standing behind her, one hand on either shoulder.

“Varric,” she replied and turned back to the parchment in front of her.

“Varric? Is that wise? Contacting him, I mean?” And even without looking up at him again, she knew at least one eyebrow was high on his forehead.

“Fergus said he would take it to Denerim when he goes for the Landsmeet. He’s going to slip it in a pile of Bann Ceorlic’s correspondence. Just in case.”

Nathaniel chuckled and placed a kiss on the top of her head. “When we decided to come here, I had no idea you’d be such a bad influence on my old friend.”

“Me?” She turned again to look up at his face, a hand over her heart in mock offense. “It was his idea.”

“Like I said—a bad influence,” he grinned down at her. “It’s a wonder Eveline still lets us into their home with the things you get Fergus into.”

And before she could protest, he leaned down and pressed his lips against her neck, exposed by the tilt of her head. She closed her eyes and let her head fall further to the side, giving him more room, a soft hum at the back of her throat. Yes, she was happy, she thought. And she felt the warmth radiate out from where he grazed her collarbone with the faintest hint of tongue and teeth, threatening to overwhelm her. But when his fingers lightly tugged at the laces of her tunic, she sighed and reached up to stop his hand.

“Let me finish this letter first.”

“As you wish,” he breathed into the crook of her neck and straightened, but he left his hands on her shoulders while she wrote, waiting, fingertips dancing just this side of patiently.

…

_If you are in touch with any of the others, please let them know. I wish there was a way to get news from you—not just the rumors and tidbits I pick up here and there. I miss everyone dearly, but I miss my trusty dwarf most of all. I hope that was the only time you’ll have to deal with the Seekers. Stay safe, my friend._

_Yours,_

_Hawke_

_…_

Varric let out a low laugh as he skimmed the letter one more time.

“So Hawke went off and made herself respectable?” He shook his head, chuckling again, and tossed the letter into the fire. “We’ll see how long _that_ lasts.”


End file.
